


cybernetic

by spicy_shirogane (orphan_account)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Arc Reactor Angst, BAMF JARVIS, BAMF Tony Stark, Bionic/Prosthetic limbs, Cyborg Tony Stark, Cyborg jokes, Discrimination against cyborgs???, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Domestic humour, First Meetings, Hurt Tony Stark, Insecure Tony Stark, Loyal DUM-E, Loyal JARVIS, M/M, Mechanic Tony Stark, Steve Is The Team Dad, Steve and Bucky are HELLA GAY, Tony Loves His Bots, Tony Stark still has the arc reactor, bad language, clint is a little shit, inaccurate science, not movie compliant, terrible puns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-04 09:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14017044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/spicy_shirogane
Summary: The Avengers get a mechanic.They're trained to expect many things, but they don't expect to grow so fond of him.





	cybernetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s not that I doubt your experience,” Fury says, the epitome of indifference, “ I came to you just because of it. I know that you’re capable of fixing that arm.” Uncharacteristically, he pauses to consider. “I just hope that you’re prepared to get beaten black and blue, should you make a wrong move. Barnes didn’t exactly treat the last mechanic who tried to look at his arm with much mercy.”
> 
> That isn’t comforting. Maybe they are coming to beat him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Evie. Love you, ya little robot fucker. <33
> 
> I posted a story like this a while ago, but I was unhappy with it, so I deleted it and typed this up instead. Enjoy.

 

 

_" you are the greatest machine i have ever created. " - h.s_

_  
_

.

 

**chapter one**

_**' the popcorn incident** **'  
** _

 

They should have left him for dead. That’s the way he sees it.

 

It’s safe to say that, if he got the chance to travel back in time to that shitty cave in Afghanistan, he’d have swapped the life that Ten Rings have him for no life at all. That way, Yinsen wouldn’t of died. That way, Pepper and Rhodey and Happy wouldn’t have to spend their time dealing with what that cave left of him. That way, everything would have been _easier_.

 

But nothing is that easy when you’re Tony Stark.

 

_(You’re not Tony Stark anymore.)_

 

They tell him often that they don’t mind -- that what Ten Rings left him with didn’t mean they loved him any less. That, in their view, just because he’s a little more on the artificial side doesn’t mean that he’s any less human.

 

He would be lying if he said that what they were telling him didn’t make him feel that little bit warmer inside. Those words mean that they don’t think he’s repulsive. That they aren’t disgusted by him. He doesn’t think he’s made his appreciation for their efforts clear enough.

 

But there’s that voice in the back of his mind that reminds him of the real reason they’re telling him this. It tells him that, no matter what they insist, they’re only saying it as to mute what he thinks of _himself._ Because it doesn’t matter how he sees it when everyone else sees it differently -- right?

 

He’s tired of it, really. Tired of other people deciding how he should feel, with little regard to what he actually feels. You wouldn’t catch him admitting it out loud -- he can’t fault Rhodey and Pepper for their conscious effort to make his situation that little bit better. He doesn’t want to risk driving them away further than they already are.

 

It’s how he’s lived his entire life, after all; almost like he’s locked in Victorian England and the key is down the drain. As long as his public dignity remained intact, what happens behind closed doors in unimportant. Discarded. Before Afghanistan, he’d seen his face on reports detailing a life story he doesn’t remember living and feelings he doesn’t recall feeling.

 

Afterwards, he’d seen his face on reports about his _death._

 

It’d been almost surreal, reading those reports. Reports that talk about how he’d been fallen victim to the torture of the Ten Rings -- his body had supposedly found when the American military had showed up to smoke the terrorists out for good. Reports that talk about how _‘that scum Stark’_ deserved the hit that came to him. Reports that discuss whether Pepper is stable and capable enough to be the new CEO of Stark Industries.

 

(She is. In fact, she’s doing a better job than he ever did with it. She went ahead with Tony’s wish to shut down the weaponry department within the industry and moved onto creating technology that advances humanity instead of destroying it -- like the development of prosthetic limbs and better smartphones. If only the media knew where _that_ idea came from.)

 

It made him laugh initially. Isn’t it funny that he’s reading news stories about his own death?

 

As far as the world knows, he’s dead. Literally everybody save for Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, some higher-ups within SHIELD and the American military think that he’s dead; and it’s given him the longest period of peace he’s ever experienced. No one kidnaps him for his intelligence and for ransom. No one tries to kill him after the Obie Incident. No one even hassles him for not getting anything productive done -- what is there to do except help Pepper generate the ideas she’s going to take credit for? When he’s lost public control of his own company? It makes him wonder why _more_ people don’t pretend to be dead.

 

It’d been a rainy afternoon in August when Rhodey had suggested he become a mechanic for SHIELD. _They need the expertise regarding tech,_ he’d told him, in that stupidly adorable voice he puts on when he’s beseeching, _and who’s better to ask for tech advice than tech itself?_

 

 _That’s low,_ Tony recalls saying, but he’d laughed anyway.

 

Part of him is aware that Rhodey had only been trying to help him squash that lingering presence of uselessness (it isn’t like he has much to do; living in Rhodey’s cramped apartment, with only DUM-E and JARVIS to keep him company when his best friend’s military duty calls. The Tower is far too communal for him to live in when he’s supposed to be dead and so Rhodey’s place is the next best option), but he knows that he’s just trying to get Tony out of his hair. It isn’t like Tony is easy to live with, what with his boisterous personality and the funky new enhancements that the Ten Rings kindly forced upon him. The man has done so much to ensure that Tony felt welcome and comfortable -- the least he could do is get out of his hair.

 

It had been difficult at first. The SHIELD agents don’t make their staring exactly subtle, so to say. He could feel their eyes burning holes in his back _(and the faint fishnet ridges of the skin graft scars on the left of his face; the metal fingers poking from his right sleeve; the blue disk of light right under his collarbones; and… and…)_ everywhere he goes. He could hear them whispering, about _how the great Tony Stark is still alive? And reduced to a fucking cyborg?_ Even just leaving the laboratory to go to the bathroom gave him anxiety.

 

They got over it after a few weeks, though. They’re SHIELD agents - trained to adapt and accommodate. From there, things had gotten easier. Almost as fast as he’d been plunged into the organization’s team of mechanics, he’d been moved up into the higher divisions. That’s where the fucking Avengers get their shit. The _Avengers._  This in itself, from Tony’s skewered point of view, had served as some sort of twisted validation -- it doesn’t get much better than creating weapons and repairing suits for the actual _Avengers_ , does it?

 

_(“You’re only high up because you’re a robot,” one man had said to him once, when he’d been borrowing a can of oil from one of the many ower divisions workshop._

 

_He’d turned on his heel to look the man right in the eyes at this, glare unwavering despite the tightness in his chest. “Cyborg, actually," he’d corrected patiently, moments before spraying oil onto the lenses of the man’s glasses.)_

 

It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t ideal, either. He lived and worked alone with, again, no one but DUM-E and JARVIS. Since Pepper and Rhodey and Happy all both busy people, visitors are rare save for when his expertise is needed or when the new kids on the block want something (someone) to marvel at. He’s learned to accept that, despite himself, another piece of technology is all they’ll think of him.

 

(It didn’t hurt, really.)

 

(Really.)

 

He’s poking at the joint of his left knee with a screwdriver when Fury comes striding into the laboratory, customary jacket billowing behind him like a cape. A single eye sweeps the room with the severity of a teacher in an exam room.“Glad to know that you’ve been busy. Finishing projects and cleaning up the lab at least a bit. These coffee cups’ll begin to attracts rats soon enough, though,” he observes, in a cold voice that practically drips with distaste.

 

Tony doesn’t look up. “Suck my dick.”

 

In reality, he couldn’t care less about what Fury thinks of the coffee cups scattered around his lab. There are things much more important to worry about than making sure everything is up to his petty standards. Maybe the rats could be decent company.

 

“I see you haven’t learned your manners yet, either,” Fury comments, absently reading a piece of paperwork from atop a large stack of it. It’s clear that he’s attempting to appear nonchalant, but Tony can hear fire burning on the tip of his tongue. No doubt is the director geared up and ready for an argument. “Go and have a shower before Barnes and Rogers get here. You look like absolute shit.”

 

“Barnes? Rogers?” Tony repeats, anxiously twisting his screwdriver in his fingers. What business do two of the Avengers have coming down to his laboratory themselves? Did he mess something up so severely that they’re coming to discuss it personally? Since when did they know he was in the Tower in the first place? “... are they coming to demand their new suits? Beat me up? What do they want?”

 

The director doesn’t reply right away, instead pausing to regard Tony, who shifts uncomfortably under his stare. Even with just one eye, Fury manages to hold the most murderous of all death stares. “Barnes’ prosthetic is damaged and that means he’s out of commission until it gets repaired. I need you to fix it as soon as possible so that we don’t risk being a man down, should the Avengers be required in combat.”

 

“So why does Rogers need to be here, too?”

 

“Is that a problem? Rogers being here with Barnes.”

 

They never really met enough for Tony to remember anything about Rogers on a personal scale. All he knows is what the media knows; what the active agents and off-field employees whisper. He’s only heard good things and yet there’s this pit of deep, unwavering dislike for the man settled in the bottom of his stomach.

 

Tony doesn’t remember much about Captain America. There isn’t much he can do about that. He knows that he’s a good person who sticks up for the people of America. He knows that he conforms to a lot of stereotypes regarding comic book superheroes (it’s almost hilarious on the occasion, how Superman he acts on the television). But personal memories of the man in red, white and blue come to him cut up and in slices; Howard raving about how much he loved Rogers over an expensive can of beer; Howard spending days upon days searching for him, drunk and aggressive and violent; Howard telling Tony that he should aspire to grow up to be a man just as good and as valiant as him.

 

(And look where that got him.)

 

Rogers had never done anything to justify that lingering dislike, but hearing his own father glorify someone else more than he even acknowledges his own _son_ just doesn’t put him in his metaphorical good books. The man is a walking reminder of everything he was expected to be and he _hates it so fucking much._

 

“Not a problem,” Tony says, smiling falsely. “Not at all.”

 

There’s a beat of silence. Only he soft whirr of DUM-E’s wheels rolling as he sweeps a nearby corner and the sound of the broom brushing against the floor taints it. “Good,” Fury says eventually, his stone cold mannerism cementing the tension in the air, and Tony looks up at him. The director’s single eye is sharp and unwavering when it snaps up to meet his gaze. “Do me a favour and don’t fuck this up, yeah? I need Barnes’ arm back in perfect working order before the Avengers get called out for another field mission. I don’t want to have to be a man down if something comes up because you can’t fix his arm properly.”

 

It frustrates him, how Fury speaks to him as if he’s incompetent -- as if he isn't SHIELD's _leading mechanic_. “I won’t fuck it up,” he snaps, glaring. “You’re acting as if I don’t have any experience with prosthetic limbs. I literally have _three_ of my own.” He holds his right arm aloft, waggling five metal fingers at the director. “I made that arm myself, dammit.”

 

“It’s not that I doubt your experience,” Fury says, the epitome of indifference, “ I came to you just because of it. I know that you’re capable of fixing that arm.” Uncharacteristically, he pauses to consider. “I just hope that you’re prepared to get beaten black and blue, should you make a wrong move. Barnes didn’t exactly treat the last mechanic who tried to look at his arm with much mercy.”

 

That isn’t comforting. Maybe they _are_ coming to beat him up.

 

“Who was it?”

 

“Endicott. He got his nose broken within a minute.”

 

Unsympathetically, Tony huffs out a laugh. “Guy had it coming to him. The biggest dickhead I’ve come across, apart from you.”

 

The director’s neutral expression doesn’t change, but Tony thinks he can see the corners of his lips upturn. He silently prides himself on managing to at least very slightly amuse the man who is widely known to be emotionless and cold towards degrading jokes at best.

 

“Go take a shower and at least _try_ to look presentable, would you?” Fury says, and Tony immediately stands from his swivel chair to oblige. He can’t even hope to deny that he looks like the (not so) human embodiment of a garbage truck -- how long ago was it since he took a decent shower? And actually bothered to shampoo his hair? “And make sure you clean up these coffee cups. Not even rats deserve to be lured into living in this lab with you.”

 

“You’re a heathen.”

 

“And you stink.”

 

As JARVIS helpfully opens the door to the interconnecting bathroom for him, Tony calls, “love you too!”

 

 

.

 

 

Metal fingers convulse enough to drop his popcorn bowl and Bucky only sighs, utterly defeated as he gazes upon the disarray now littered across the communal living room floor. “You’ve got to be joking.”

 

Chewing through his own monumental bowl, Clint laughs. “Tragic.”

 

The marksman is spread across Banner’s worn green beanbag, sweatpants rolled past his knees and tank top exposing biceps built from a lifetime of pulling bowstrings. His blond hair is mussed and there are streaks of grease in his quiff where he has been running his hands through it to keep it upright.  Bucky has lived with Clint long enough to know that the archer won’t be sharing any of his popcorn and so he doesn’t even bother to ask, instead choosing to abandon his empty bowl and collapse into the nearest loveseat available.

 

His body falls atop a warm body, drawing a soft ‘oof’ from the man unfortunately pinned underneath him. Familiar hands roam to where the prosthetic connects to his shoulder, their touch soothing where the skin cuts off into tough metal plating. If it were anyone else, Bucky would have been up and off that sofa in less than a second -- he’s careful about who touches his arm -- but he can recognize those calloused fingers and the faint scent of strawberry shampoo from a mile-off.

 

"Hello," Bucky murmurs, twisting his head on the muscular chest he rests it on. Steve Rogers looks gorgeous as ever, even while clad in a ratty sports tee and old sweatpants. The lighting of the communal living room is harsh and yet he looks so soft, with his curious baby blues and gentle dimples at the corner of his lips. The faintest of freckles brought on by the summer weather dapple his nose. "You look cute today."

 

“You look cuter,” Steve says, his voice silky smooth in all its glory.

 

Warm compassion for his boyfriend spreads in his chest and all the way into the pit of his stomach. He’s never been the sappy sort of person, but Steve always manages to make him feel so soft with his low, rumbling voice and perfect Prince Charming smiles. “You’re the corniest.”

 

Clint, who'd been observing their intimacy quietly before now, makes a dramatic gagging noise and pretends to stick two butter-coated fingers down his throat. "You're both _disgustingly_ adorable,” he gripes queasily. “Stop, or I’ll throw my popcorn up again.”

 

“Please don’t,” Steve says, his forehead wrinkling.

 

That’s when Bucky feels it - the familiar sensation of his prosthetic joints stiffening, electricity jumping at the point where it connects to his skin. It’s not particularly painful but Bucky finds himself wincing and forcing out a long, stale breath anyway. In a feeble attempt to loosen and regain control of the limb, he uses his other hand to manually bend the joints. Either it’s getting more annoying as times goes on or Bucky is getting angrier, because it’s the first time he’s had to swallow a frustrated throat that claws at his throat. “Fuck,” he whispers instead.

 

If it weren't for Steve's supersoldier hearing, his cursing would've gone unnoticed. "Is it the arm?" he asks, his hands moving through Bucky’s hair - a habit freshly ingrained into him. "Maybe we should take a look at it, Bucks."

 

He sounds concerned, but Bucky doesn't think anything of it. Steve has always been a bit of a worrywart where he doesn’t really need to be. "You're not a mechanic and neither am I," he says flatly. "Trying to look at it ourselves might break it even more."

 

"Is it hurting you?" Steve asks, fretful.

 

"No," he answers, but his boyfriend seems unconvinced. He sighs. "I promise, Stevie. It’s not hurting me. It just feels weird.”

 

It’s been doing this for perhaps a week or so now. At first he simply chalked it up to be a brief skip in the circuit (that’s the largest issue with wearing a prosthetic that uses electricity in order to capture perfect mobility) but it has been getting worse over time and Bucky’s patience spreads out thinner with each convulsion. He's taken it upon himself to figure out it's vicious cycle: for perhaps an hour, there would be no issue. He could use his arm with no trouble whatsoever. Until out of nowhere, his fingers and wrist would begin to convulse whenever he tried to move them - this would last for a varying amount of time, until the joints stiffen to the point of complete inability to move -  before the arm would behave itself once more and the cycle would restart. Simple.

 

Except, it isn't so simple. Not really. Using the prosthetic as one does with a real hand has become his second-nature after so long; having it freeze up and become immobile while he's holding mugs or signing papers or doing _anything_ that involves his hands always comes as a surprise no matter how hard he tries to expect it. At least ten pieces of china have been smashed in this past week and countless bags of popcorn wasted on the floor thanks to the habitual use of his metal arm.

 

Asperous hands trace the wrist joint on the prosthetic, his touch careful and gentle. "That can't be comfortable for you," he fusses, all maternal-like, akin to how Bucky used to sound whenever Steve got himself bruised and bloodied in an alleyway pre-serum.

 

“Can’t really feel it,” Bucky mumbles.

 

Stretching his back in the elegant manner of a cat, Clint sleepily offers, “I’m pretty sure you can go downstairs and ask Fury to take you to whichever mechanic made you that new arm. Last time I heard, the guy lives in some closed-off laboratory like, five or six floors from this one. I haven’t met him but I think I heard Fury talking to Hill about the guy when I came back from that one mission in Morocco with Nat.”

 

Bucky knows that it was someone from SHIELD who created the arm that replaced the one given to him by HYDRA, but he never realized that they might be living in the same building as him. There are a lot of SHIELD employees who work in the lower floors of the Tower but he can’t think of many who actually _live_ here apart from himself and the other Avengers.

 

“You think he lives here?” Steve asks.

 

“Maybe. Maybe he’s just staying here temporarily. Like I said, I only heard about him because I eavesdropped accidentally.” Clint scoops his hand through his popcorn bowl like a shovel through dirt, humming. “I think he’s the same guy who makes all our stuff. Kind of sucks that we don’t really know him, doesn’t it?”

 

That thought alone makes Bucky feel disheartened. It’s never really occurred to him that there’s someone who works tirelessly to create the equipment which has saved not only the Avengers’ lives but the lives of those they serve to protect, too. He’s become so accustomed to seeing everything they need delivered straight to their floors via their privatized elevator that where and who it could have come from has never so much as crossed his mind before. Is he really becoming so obnoxious as to just take everything he gets for granted?

 

Steve heaves a sigh, his chest expanding deeply behind Bucky’s head. “Guess I never really thought about it,” he murmurs, working his calloused fingers from his boyfriend’s scalp and down to his shoulders, where they rest comfortably in the warm space beside his neck. “What d’ you reckon, Bucks? Should we go see the man who made your arm?”

 

“Or woman,” Clint adds around a mouthful of popcorn.

 

“Or woman. What do you want, Bucks?”

 

Really, all Bucky wants is to take the chance to just relax in the warm comfort of Steve’s arms. The movie is a low rumble of noise in the background, muted where his ears are pressed against the taller man’s muscular chest. The supersoldier lets his head tilt backwards and Steve leans forward to press a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. His breath tastes like coffee and buttery popcorn. “Can we talk about it after the movie?” he murmurs, wrapping his flesh arm around his boyfriend’s neck like a cuddly koala.

 

Steve seems to melt into a puddle. “Fine," he says, grinning lovingly, "but that doesn’t mean we’re not talking about it.”

 

“Fine. Cuddle me.”

 

They settle into their usual seating arrangement on the sofa; Steve’s back against the back of the loveseat and Bucky draped like a sleeping cat across his chest, the popcorn bowl placed where they can both reach it with minimal effort. It’s an unspoken tradition, to lie together like this - Steve’s large frame and seemingly supernatural ability to radiate heat like the sunshine he is means he’s the perfect portable hot water bottle and Bucky’s smaller body means that he fits against his boyfriend as perfectly as a jigsaw piece.

 

Ten minutes sees the prosthetic going temporarily forgotten, Bucky's attention stolen away for a brief moment in favour of watching the movie. It isn't often that he feels as relaxed as he is, but Steve's presence against him and the commonplace scent of his shampoo is enough to put him into a state of domestic tranquility. For a moment, all he knows is _contentment._

 

Living with the Avengers has definitely been a rollercoaster, but Bucky would be lying if he said it wasn't worth it. Their antics may occasionally get out of hand and everyone’s cooking apart from Sam’s may be shot to shit, but Bucky can’t deny that the adores it. He loves the way that they’re all so used to Clint being in the vents that, when he eventually starts to throw things at people from the grates, no one even bats an eyelid. He loves that they have unannounced water balloon or paintball or Nerf gun wars that get so out of hand that they end up having to call for assistance when it comes to cleaning everything up again. He loves that one of the communal floor’s most reinforced rules it ‘no open wounds on the couch’.

 

He loves it. Completely and utterly.

 

(Part of him used to wonder whether he only loved it because Steve is right there with him, but then he sits down to eat at breakfast and is suddenly reminded of how great it feels to be with people who have your back. Unwaveringly.)

 

The best part is that they get it. They understand when Bucky... _isn't quite there_. They give him space when he asks for it -- and, sometimes, when they just know it's what he needs. They spend time with him when he just needs someone there. They don't treat him like he's made of glass. Like he's _fragile_ and _broken_. They care so fucking _much._

 

He dips his metal hand into their bowl of popcorn without a second thought and is mutely distraught when the fingers convulse and sends popcorn all over his lap in a mess of greasy butter and salt. For only a moment, frustration twists his insides (can he not just eat popcorn in peace? Why does this have to be happening to him?), only eased when he hears Steve laughing giddily behind his head. “Maybe we should think about going to the SHIELD mechanic sooner, Bucks,” he suggests, voice affectionate and dim compared to the blare of the movie.

 

Bucky uses his other hand to collect popcorn back into the bowl. Whoever made it must have slathered extra butter atop, because it’s beginning to leave little stains in his sweater. “Maybe,” he says.

 

“I can see it twitching,” Clint observes.

 

“Me too,” Steve adds, squinting at his arm.

 

It seems like the quickest solution to this problem is to remove the prosthetic until he can figure out why it isn’t working properly, because, as far as Bucky sees it, the inconvenience of dropping everything he tries to pick up doesn’t compare to that of having one perfectly functioning arm.

 

And _yes_ , going to SHIELD about his arm is probably the best solution available in the long-run. It's not as if there's anyone who can do it within the Avengers - his best chance being Bruce, who has clearly stated numerous times that _he is not that kind of doctor_ \- and there’s a large possibility that the man (or woman!) who gave him this new prosthetic is working only a few floors underneath theirs.

 

But Bucky has a reason as to why he’s hesitant to choose their help and it is purely because of his issues regarding the arm and who he trusts enough to go near it. Rationally, he is aware that whoever he can find to fix the damn thing has no intention of trying to bring harm to him. If he were to get the help of the person who made it, why should he be worried about them destroying their own creation? SHIELD are a secure and top-secret organization and have held their ground through attacks from both the outside and the inside; they certainly do not go about hiring people this way and that. He’s sure that even their low-grade mechanics and scientists had to go through several different trials of varying severity to ensure their loyalty to the shield.

 

… but there are times that the rational part of his brain doesn’t operate so well.

 

(He recalls the time Fury demanded one of his men take a look at his arm upon their first couple of meetings in order to 'understand it better' - that poor mechanic had left with a broken nose he didn't really deserve.)

 

“Okay,” he says with some reluctance. “Okay. We’ll go to SHIELD. The guy who made it.” He motions to his arm. “This, I mean.”

 

Steve’s right brow arches. “Are you sure?”

 

“Real sure.”

The supersoldier adjusts himself and Bucky so that he is level with his eyes. “I know you,” he says, and Bucky looks into those fretful baby blues and realizes just how much he loves Steve _fucking_ Rogers. “I know you, and I know that you really aren’t sure. I know how you are with your arm and how stubborn you are.”

 

Classic Steve - forever the worrywart. It's a trait that Bucky finds most endearing. "It needs to  be fixed," he counters, flexing metal fingers around Steve’s larger hand. The taller man clings to it like a baby gorilla to it’s mother’s back. "I can't live with this for much longer. Dropping everything I hold ain't fun, Stevie."

 

“I guess… I guess that can’t be great.” Steve scratches the rough stubble on his chin, expression thoughtful. For a moment, only the movie slices into the silence.  “I can come with you. Do you want me to come with you?”

  
And yet another trait of Steve's that Bucky adores makes an appearance -- _he knows when he’s needed_. Warm appreciation for his boyfriend’s golden heart swells in his chest. “Of course you’re coming,” he says gruffly, letting Steve pull him closer. “You ain’t got a choice.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me happy. Happy means I write faster. See where I'm going with this?
> 
> Join my discord family. We watch movies and play Cards Against Humanities. It's strange.  
> https://discord.gg/cUbxbdc


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